


Fall

by hjea



Series: Seasons [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo/Gaby Teller - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjea/pseuds/hjea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's November 1989. Where else would they be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall

**Author's Note:**

> I finally got to watch the movie, went to bed in a daze of happy enjoyment, dreamed up this little scene, and then typed it out--all in a space of less than 24 hours--so any shortcomings, typos, and character glitches found herein are very much on me. I have also kept my description of the first night at the fall of the Berlin Wall purposefully vague, but any historical mistakes and over-simplifications are likewise mea culpa. 
> 
> All the thanks to [Katie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/intrikate88) for the German help, Cold War knowledge, and general and unending enthusiasm. ♥♥♥
> 
> Lastly, this can be read as Illya/Gaby or Illya/Gaby/Solo, but is mainly just about three people who really love to be together.

Gaby calls him from Berlin one afternoon, and with her usual directness informs him that if he wants to witness history he should catch the next plane. A week later he’s standing by her side once more, watching a group of kids dance on top of the wall where, 25 years ago, he had sailed through the air with her in his arms. He remembers the cold wet air stinging his face that night, and the sound of bullets missing them by inches, and the thrill--above all else--of stealing one more thing from behind the Iron Curtain.

 

Gaby looks up at him, arms crossed and a fierce smile playing across her lips. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

 

They’re surrounded by the sounds of joyful and defiant shouting, laughter, loud music, and underneath it the constant _chink-chink_ of a wall coming down by inches. But coming down.

 

Napoleon adjusts the grip on his cane and offers his elbow to Gaby. “It is that.”

 

They walk slowly, arm in arm through the jubilant crowd, along the wall towards one of the checkpoints where people are gathered in even greater numbers. People are still coming through from the Eastern side in a steady stream, although not with the same force and intensity they were earlier, like they were afraid the chance would be snatched away from them. There’s traffic going the other way as well, Napoleon observes, with no one even pretending to check papers anymore.

 

Gaby pulls up short suddenly and Napoleon tenses instinctively, scanning the hundreds of people surrounding them and wondering how on earth she could spot anything before him from her height. But a second later he sees the tall grey head bobbing toward them through the crowd, and he relaxes with a rueful shake of his head. Of course.

 

Gaby lets go of his elbow and launches herself at the figure with a surprised shout. “Illya!”

 

The Russian bends nearly in half to enfold Gaby in his arms, and they stand wrapped around each other like that for a long minute, unnoticed by the crowd who have witnessed hundreds of such scenes that night. Finally Gaby pulls away a little, then stands on her tiptoes to kiss Illya on each cheek and follows it up with a hard blow to his arm. “I didn’t even know you were in Berlin!”

 

Illya straightens and shrugs with much-practiced insouciance. Napoleon nods at him over Gaby’s head, not trying too hard to suppress his grin. “Peril.”

 

Illya nods back. “Cowboy.”

 

Gaby rolls her eyes dramatically and drags Illya back towards Napoleon until she can sling an arm around both their waists and both men reach out to clasp the other’s shoulder. Their own little triangle once again.

 

Illya is still aged from his brief term in a gulag, but he looks better than the last time Napoleon saw him, standing straight and dignified, with much more ease and composure in his frame than the live wire Napoleon had encountered in this spot nearly three decades ago.

 

“So,” Napoleon drawls. “Just thought you might happen to bump into us tonight?”

 

Illya shrugs again, but Napoleon--with years of experience--can tell he’s enjoying himself. “I didn’t think you two would miss this.” He nods at Napoleon’s cane. “Nice top.”

 

Napoleon blinks, impressed despite himself.”It’s new! And from San Francisco! How the hell did you get to it?”

 

Illya grins for real now, lined face losing decades in that familiar look of pleasure at getting one over on him. “I won’t tell. Got to keep you on your toes, old man.” Napoleon snorts. Between them, Gaby squeezes them tighter in delight.

 

“Where is Alex?” Illya asks suddenly, turning his head and squinting to try and pick out a single face in the dark. Gaby shrugs, unconcerned. “Around somewhere. No doubt smashing up some wall or dancing on it. Certainly not hanging around with a bunch of old people tonight.” She pinches Illya’s side playfully at his look of disappointment. “You’ll see him soon.”

 

With a tug from Gaby, they turn and fall into step beside each other, perhaps slower than they once were, but still, Napoleon feels, decidedly right. He looks out across what must now be the entire population of Berlin, East and West, gathered together. Already parts of the wall are coming down, holes and cracks showing through to the other side. Despite the inevitability, Napoleon still can’t quite believe he’s seeing it.

 

He looks down at Gaby, up again at Illya. “Should we stay?”

 

Illya frowns and shrugs, checks his face. Napoleon shrugs back. Gaby shakes her head and laughing, turns them away in the direction of her flat. “We’ve seen enough. Let’s go home.”

 

After a few blocks, and with the last sounds of the crowd behind them, Illya sweeps his eyes over Gaby and with patently false nonchalance asks, “So... who chose your outfit?”

 

Gaby groans, muttering “ _Herrgott nochmal_ ” under her breath and Napoleon throws a hand in the air with a ‘don’t look at me’ gesture. “It was all her. And I wasn’t going to say anything, but really Gaby? Those shoes?”

 

Illya tsks in disagreement. “No the shoes are fine. The coat on the other hand--”

 

Napoleon's cry of indignation echoes off the city’s streets. “--The shoes are FINE??”


End file.
